


Kings of Winter

by AdrianWrites



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brotherhood, Brothers, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Family, Family Dynamics, Gen, Jon Snow is Catelyn and Ned Stark's Son, Jon Snow is Not a Targaryen, Jon Snow is a Stark, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-05-19 10:20:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19355029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdrianWrites/pseuds/AdrianWrites
Summary: Jon "Snow" is born Jon Stark. He is the twin brother of Robb Stark and trueborn son of Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully. When the War of Five Kings breaks out, Jon isn't up at the Wall freezing his arse off. He's at his brother's side, where he was always meant to be.





	1. CATELYN

The war was over. The rebels had won. Catelyn had recently received word that Robert Baratheon now sat on the iron throne and that the Targaryens were dead. She had received word that her lord father survived as had her husband, Eddard Stark. She had hoped the latter would be by her side for the birth.

Her labor started at midday. She had been sitting out in the sun with her sister when the pain began. Maester Luwin quickly took her into some chambers he had set aside for the birth. The process was long and agonizingly painful. The maester had offered her milk of the poppy, only a little, enough to ease the pain. She had refused it.

The pain came in waves. She could manage the first of it through quick breaths and gritted teeth, but by the time the sun went down and moonlight filtered through the open window, she was screaming and pounding her fists against the bedframe with every new surge of torment.

The moon was full and high in the sky when Luwin announced her babe’s arrival to her. By the gods, it felt as though she was being ripped in half. The maester helped her through it as best he could and, in time, the baby came. A boy, the maester said, red-faced and screaming his little head off, but healthy. She smiled then. Another burst of pain melted the smile from her face as quick as it came.

“What’s wrong, maester?” She asked, her face twisted in pain and terror.

“Nothing’s wrong, nothing at all,” the wrinkled old man assured her, “another babe is coming. That’s all.”

“Another babe?!” She let her head fall back against the pillows.

The second child was much easier on her. They came quickly and without much pain. The room was filled with the screams of her firstborn. He was so loud, she almost couldn’t tell the silence coming from her second. She propped herself up on her elbows, looked at Luwin in confusion, horrific paranoid confusion.  _ What’s wrong with my baby? _

Nothing was wrong, Luwin once more reassured her. Another boy, he claimed, just as healthy as the first. He cleaned the two boys,  _ her boys,  _ wrapped them each in a blanket, and brought them to her. They were… perfect. She held one in each arm, fighting off her exhaustion for as long as she could.

 

\-- -- -- -- --

 

She was seated on a bench in the open air courtyard when the riders came. Lysa sat beside her, holding Cat’s firstborn. Her brother, Edmure sat on a bench opposite them, holding her second. The horses came, carrying the heroes of the Rebellion. Her father rode in first, looking weary and favoring his left side. He was soon followed by her uncle, Ser Brynden the Blackfish, and Cat’s lord husband, Eddard Stark. He looked as stoic and unflinching as stone, as  _ ice,  _ but when his eyes found her, he vaulted off his horse and sprinted across the yard to meet her in a tight hug. He wore a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He pulled back and looked from one squirming bundle to the other.

“Which one’s mine?” he asked. His voice was rough. Gone was the boy she married only the year before. Standing before her was someone altogether different.

“Both.” She told him with a smile and a kiss to his cheek.

“Both?” He looked at her incredulously. She took up the babe from Lysa and placed him in her husband’s arms.

“This one’s your heir.” The babe was a screamer. It seemed he never stopped wailing and squirming about. He looked up at his father with heavy tears in his bright blue eyes.

“Robb. He shall be the future, an inheritor of a great kingdom that he shall leave even better than he found it,” Ned claimed with certainty. Edmure rose, extending the other child to him. He passed Robb to Catelyn before taking his other son into his arms. This one was as silent now as he was when he entered the world, looking about curiously with his dark grey eyes. He took his father’s thumb in his tiny little hand. “Jon,” Ned named him with a smile, “he shall be his brother’s keeper, a stalwart guardian, the sword of the North.”

 

\-- -- -- -- --

 

Jon was regarded by most of the household as “Robb’s shadow.” This was due to both his dark hair and eyes, as well as his tendency to follow his twin about, aiding in whatever schemes he would come up with. In truth, the two were inseparable. As infants, when one would be taken from the nursery and the other left behind, both boys would howl like wolves until they were reunited. As babes, when Robb would crawl towards their mother or father, Jon would be quick to follow. Jon had taken his first steps sooner than his brother. Only a step or two before falling back on his bottom. When he finally got confident enough to cross a room, he’d only make it halfway before stopping and turning back to see if his brother was following. It took Robb another moon’s turn before he could join Jon, but once he could the castle got a lot more interesting with two little lordlings running about.

Robb was the first to speak. Cat figured that was fitting. Jon had always been, and likely always would be, the quiet one. Robb’s first word was “mama” which she was quite pleased about. Jon’s first word was “dog” which was somewhat less special, but no less exciting when she heard him say it.

The boys were three name-days old when Sansa was born. Cat loved her boys with all her heart and soul, but when her daughter was born, she was filled with a giddiness she hadn’t felt since she was a young girl back in Riverrun. After Sansa came, Jon spent a great deal of time either in the nursery or following Cat around, asking all sorts of questions about his baby sister. Robb was much less enthusiastic about a new child, but he stuck to his brother’s side anyway.

When Arya was born, she was glad to have her boys by her side. Ned was off at war again, helping to stomp out the Greyjoy Rebellion on Pyke. Robb was distraught at his father’s absence, but Jon was a great help with his siblings. He helped to watch after Sansa with Old Nan and did his best to keep his brother distracted. During those times, she would sometimes forget how young he was. He acted so mature for a boy only six name-days old. That is until she found him hiding behind the stables, crying and wishing his father would get home soon.

When Ned did return to Winterfell, things got even worse for Jon. Ned brought with him the young heir to Pyke, Theon Greyjoy. He was a hostage taken from Lord Balon to ensure the ironborn wouldn’t rise up in rebellion again. Ned preferred to call him a ward, though. Robb had taken to the older boy rather quickly. Jon had not. It was then that the twins began spending more and more time apart. Ned always seemed too busy, Arya was still young and difficult, Sansa was getting to the age where she didn’t want to play with her older brother as much anymore, and Catelyn herself was pregnant with their soon-to-be fifth child. This meant that Jon was more alone than ever. He spent his days learning as much as he could from Maester Luwin or Ser Rodrik Cassel and rarely played like a kid his age should. It was only a few moons before Robb was back at his brother’s side, pulling him along on all his new adventures, but by then a darkness had developed in Jon, spurred on by the loneliness of being the odd one out.

At twelve name-days, the twins were developing into honorable and dutiful young men. Both were tall for their age, nearly as tall as Cat herself, and still growing quite fast. They were the same height, or near enough to not matter, but where Robb was more filled out, Jon was leaner. Robb kept his reddish-brown curls cut short, while Jon let his wavy, dark locks grow past his shoulders. Robb embraced the gods of both his parents, while Jon tended to find his peace solely in the godswood. Both boys attended all their lessons, read up on the histories, and did all that was expected of a noble lord’s sons, but they both found themselves most comfortable in the yard with swords in hand.

Robb was stronger, that much was certain, but Jon knew how to compensate. He was quicker than his brother, in both body and mind, and would always try and let his brother make the first mistake before swiftly capitalizing on it. Jon won in the yard more often than not, but both boys were better fighters than Theon, something they never let the older boy forget. While Robb was the better rider, Jon was the better archer, and the two loved going hunting with their father as often as he would allow.

By then, the castle was simply bursting with children. Sansa was the perfect image of what a noble lady should be, Arya was wild and willful, which Ned attributed to her “wolf blood,” and Bran was as happy and carefree as could be. Rickon, the sixth Stark child, had just recently been born. The Starks fell in line with one another as time went on. Ned would teach the older boys all he could about lordship and give his daughters toys and sweets when he could. Catelyn would dote on her eldest and her lady-to-be, remind Jon not to brood too much, and try to see eye-to-eye with her youngest daughter. Robb would tease his sisters and run about with Jon and Theon. Jon, himself, would slip away from the older boys when he could to play with Arya, tell Bran stories of great knights, or watch over little Rickon. Sansa spent time with her best friend, Jeyne, and tried to shape her sister into a proper lady. Arya rejected everything ladylike and snuck away from her lessons to watch her brothers practice or practice by herself when she thought no one was watching. Bran just took it all in, enjoying all the time his family would spend with him.

Life was simple then. It was good and peaceful and Catelyn was content in watching her six beautiful babies grow up around her. She knew it wouldn’t remain that way forever. She knew one day it would end. Her daughters would marry highborn lords and become the ladies of other castles. Her sons would race off to become knights or rule lands of their own across the North. In time, everything would change.  _ But not for a very long time,  _ she hoped. It didn’t hurt to hope.


	2. JON

Jon was awake well before dawn. He had trouble sleeping the night before, so he set about his day earlier than usual. He dressed in black leathers beneath a fur-lined soft, black cloak. The cooks weren’t up yet, so Jon walked through the kitchen and into the storeroom, snatching up half a loaf of bread and a portion of hard cheese from the day prior to break his fast. He’d find himself a proper meal later, but for now it would do. He made his way out into the courtyard, pulling his cloak tighter around him to stave off the chill. For nine years, Westeros had enjoyed summer, but summer was winding to an end, and winter was coming once more. He nodded to the Stark guardsmen as he passed through. Most only barely nodded back, weary from the last night’s watch. Harwin waved at him from his place atop the walls, so he tore off a piece of the hard bread and tossed it up to the man.

Jon slowed his steps, careful to breathe deeply and not let his dark thoughts fester within him. For some reason, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. It had disrupted his sleep and was making him anxious and uncomfortable.  _ Take a deep breath in. Hold it. Now let it out slowly.  _ He went over his mother’s words in his head. When he was six, he began having problems with all the dark thoughts that popped into his mind. It was about the time when Theon Greyjoy came to Winterfell and things started changing around his home. 

His mother had found him sitting in a corner in the library, clutching his knees to his chest. His heart was beating so fast, he felt it was soon to burst from his chest, and he struggled for air. He didn’t know what was happening. At first, he thought he was going to die. He went to the library for some peace and quiet, but the silence only made it worse. He had felt so alone then. But his mother found him. She knelt down beside him and rubbed soft circles into his back and told him everything was going to be fine.  _ Try counting,  _ she had told him,  _ one to ten.  _ She counted with him. She told him that if by the time he got to ten, he hadn’t calmed down, go to twenty. Then thirty. Then forty. By the time he reached the Godswood this morning, he was up to two-hundred-and-sixty-seven.

He had come to the Godswood to be alone. Very few people in Winterfell were awake at this hour, let alone out and about, which is why he was surprised to find a familiar figure kneeling before the heart tree. His father had let his beard grow out some in recent years. Robb said it made him look more like a lord. Jon thought it made him look older at the very least, though he didn’t know whether or not that favored his lord father. This morning the ground and his father’s beard alike were lightly dusted from the summer snows that swirled around them. Jon approached the heart tree slowly, not wanting to disturb his father’s prayers. He knelt down next to him and reached out to touch a thick white root at the base of the tree.

The physical sensations of being out in nature helped ground him. He felt the dense root against the palm of his hand, the dampness on his knee from the melting snow, and the cool wind on his face. He allowed himself a moment to just… exist. He pushed the dark thoughts from his head, shook out his uneasiness, and let himself get caught up in the moment. He was a Stark of Winterfell. He was surrounded by friends and family. Nothing could hurt him here.

“What are you doing up this early?” his father’s voice was always soft when he spoke to his children. It was a striking change from the rough, booming voice he normally brandished around the castle. His lord’s voice, as Robb would call it.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he replied with a shrug and another deep breath. His father looked like he wanted to pry, but must have decided against it. Instead, he took one last look at the heart tree before standing and offering his hand out to Jon, helping him to his feet.

“A rider came before dawn,” Lord Stark told him, as the two started off back towards the castle. “The scouts came across a deserter from the Night’s Watch.” 

Jon knew what that meant. He would join father, as well as Robb, Theon, and some of the other men of Winterfell to see the king’s justice done. “This is the fourth deserter this year.”

“Aye,” his father replied, “the last letter Uncle Benjen wrote to me, he said the Watch had less than a thousand men at their disposal. The Watch isn’t what it used to be.” Not for the first time, Jon looked upon his father’s eyes and saw the hardness give way to weariness. He had been a second son, like Jon, albeit younger by a year rather than a minute. He had never expected to rule the North and lordship weighed on him quite heavily over the years.

“When do we ride out?”

“Daybreak. I’ll gather the men, you wake your brothers.”

“Brothers?” Jon repeated. “Bran is to come as well?”

“Aye, he may be young, but he won’t stay that way for good. He’ll be a man grown soon enough and he must be ready. After all, winter is coming.”

 

\-- -- -- -- --

 

They had left the castle that morning with deep frowns etched into faces of stone. Theon made his jokes and did his best to make Robb laugh, but the Starks were as somber as ever. The twins were old hands at justice, having seen the deed done over a dozen times. Neither boy particularly enjoyed seeing men beheaded. Bran was young and nervous. It was the first time he was allowed to join them and he didn’t know what to expect. It didn’t help that Robb had spent the morning filling his head with nonsense about wildlings coming down from Beyond-the-Wall to burn Winterfell to the ground and drag him off into the night.

The ride up to the small holdfast that held the deserter was near as silent as the crypts. The ride back was quite the opposite and by the time they made it back home, the sun was high in the sky and the Stark boys were smiling ear to ear, each holding a direwolf pup in their arms. Everyone they passed turned to look at them as they walked by, some wide-eyed and slack-jawed, others only smirking and shaking their heads because  _ of course  _ the Starks would have direwolves as pets.

When they entered the great hall to find the rest of their family finishing up their midday meal, Jon thought his mother might die for the way her face paled at the sight of them. Sansa gasped, Rickon came running across the room to them, and Arya sat in awe. “Are those wolves?” She asked.

“Direwolves,” Jon corrected. Robb handed one down to little Rickon, the one with all black fur. Theon crossed the room to give the one he had been holding to Sansa. “This one’s mine,” he declared, holding out his snow-white companion for all to see. There were six direwolves, one for each of the Stark children. 

_ “Whoever gets that one will be sorely disappointed. He’ll be the first to die,” Theon had said when Jon plucked up the albino runt from where it had been pushed away from the others. _

_ “I think not, Greyjoy. This one belongs to me.” Jon had felt the connection the moment he laid eyes upon him. It was less that he chose the wolf and more that the wolf had chosen him. _

“Where’s mine?” Arya asked, bounding over to stand in front of Jon with her hands on her hips. 

Jon feigned a look of exasperation and looked over at Robb. “I knew we were forgetting something, brother.” He looked back down at his sister and shook his head. “We must’ve left your’s out in the woods. It’s probably dead by now.”

“Shut up,” she replied and punched him in the side. He unhooked his arm from behind his back and presented her with the last of the pups, which she took from him and held to her chest like an overprotective mother.

They spent most of the day in the hall, watching as their pups ran about playing with one another. They argued over what they were going to call them. Robb named his Grey Wind. Arya said that was a stupid name. Sansa named her’s Lady. Arya said that was even stupider. She eventually settled on the name Nymeria, after the warrior Princess of Dorne. Bran and Rickon decided they’d wait and name their’s some other time. Jon watched as his siblings bickered and his sibling’s pups yipped and growled and playfully snapped at one another in the center of the room. All the while, his own pup stayed seated at his feet, silent as a  _ Ghost. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to go up days ago. My bad.
> 
> Jon's upbringing in this is very different than his upbringing in canon. If he seems OOC at times, it's because this Jon isn't canon-Jon, so try not to let it bother you too much.
> 
> I do have a question for you, if you care to answer. Would you rather shorter chapters that are posted more frequently or longer chapters that are posted less frequently? Or do you not mind either way?


	3. ROBB

Robb stood between his father and his twin in Winterfell’s main courtyard. His mother was standing on the other side of his father, while his younger siblings were lined up according to age on the opposite side of Jon. The twins were dressed up in clothes newly made specifically for the visit; new boots and trousers beneath matching grey doublets. Each depicted a direwolf across their breast, his dark grey and Jon’s white as fresh snow. It had been Sansa’s idea to match the wolves on their clothes to their own direwolf companions. Sansa had made her own dress, a soft, light blue that she wore beneath a pure white cloak. Her long, auburn hair was braided down her back and she stood as tall and proud as she could muster. She had to look proper for the royal family, something Arya had teased her about relentlessly all morning.  _ It’s just the king,  _ she had said, as if he were no more special than any other lord coming to meet with their father. 

Other Northern lords had visited Winterfell quite frequently throughout his lifetime and Robb, and his brother, knew most of them personally. While Roose Bolton was cold and unnerving, Wyman Manderly was kind and generous. Rickard Karstark was intense and stern, but the “Greatjon” Umber was boisterous and always quick to laugh. There were others too: soft-spoken Lord Cerwyn, the Glover brothers, and Lady Maege Mormont, whom the Northmen called the “She-Bear”. When they would visit, it was a relatively muted affair. Outriders would meet them and accompany them to the castle, where they would be given guest rights and a place at his father’s side. They would eat, drink, and enjoy the company of the Starks for a time before setting off home. This visit, however, was altogether different.

His father had sent out an honor guard led by Jory Cassel to meet with the King and the three hundred knights, squires, freeriders, and retainers that accompanied him. Winterfell had to provide the upcoming guests with food, drinks, and shelter for the duration of the royal visit, which meant that the castle had been nothing but chaos during the past moon’s turn as servants rushed about, preparing chambers for the royal family to sleep in, procuring meats, cheeses, ale, and wine to feed them with, and ensuring the castle was fit for a king.

Robb was his father’s heir and knew there were high expectations for him, so he shaved his face, cut his hair, and dressed as he was requested to. Jon was significantly less enthusiastic, but he did as he was asked, only balking when it came time to visit the barber and trim down his long, unruly locks.

He looked over at his brother, who stood as still and grim as one of the statues down in the crypts. He elbowed him in the side. Jon grunted and gave him a look that meant he would get Robb back later, but when he turned back to face the procession the frown was gone from his face, so Robb took that as a small victory.

The stream of men flooded the courtyard like a river of gold and silver, waving banners displaying the crowned stag of House Baratheon. A man rode forward and the throng of people parted for him. He wore a full suit of golden armor that shone in the sunlight. His hair was as gold as his plate and he exuded such confidence that Robb half-expected for a man to step forward and herald him as the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, but when he got closer Robb got a better look at the cloth that hung from the side of his palfrey, a golden lion against red.

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” Jon declared, quietly. “The Queen’s brother.”

“ _ Kingslayer,”  _ Theon snickered behind them. If Ser Jaime heard him, he did not show it. Others followed after the knight, a disfigured man in grey, a tall boy garbed in red and gold, and a rather small man with mismatched eyes. With each new arrival, Jon would quietly announce them to Robb and Theon would lean forward to name them differently amidst stifled laughter.

“Sandor Clegane,” Jon said.

“ _ The Hound,”  _ Theon tittered.

“Prince Joffrey Baratheon.”

“More like  _ Princess  _ Joffrey.”

“Tyrion Lannister, the Queen’s other brother.”

“ _ The Imp!”  _ Theon exclaimed too loudly. Jon turned towards him with a clenched jaw and Robb thought it was quite possibly the worst time for a fistfight to break out between his twin and his friend. Fortunately, Ser Rodrik Cassel stepped up to pull Theon backwards among the rest of the Stark household.

When they turned back, a rather rotund man was being helped from his saddle. He was tall and stocky, with a blotchy, red face beneath a dark, wiry beard. “Ned!” his voice boomed as he made his way across the yard, flanked by two men in snow-white armor. “You have not changed at all,” the man declared as he pulled Robb’s father into a tight hug.

“Your Grace, Winterfell is yours,” his father said.  _ Your Grace?  _ Robb shared a look with Jon that told him his twin was as shocked as he was. Growing up, they had heard many stories about the Demon of the Trident, a man as tall and strong as a giant and handsome enough to make any maiden swoon. To say he had been expecting something else would be an understatement. His father knelt before the king and the rest followed suit, dropping to a knee as the other guests dismounted.

When the king gestured for his father to stand, he and his siblings did as well. By then, the king was joined by the most beautiful woman Robb had ever seen, whom his father referred to as “my queen” before bowing his head and kissing her hand. The king pulled Robb’s mother into a hug before stepping back and gesturing to the three golden haired children who had lined up behind the queen. 

“My sons Joffrey and Tommen, and my daughter Myrcella,” King Robert stated with thinly veiled disinterest. His father went through the formalities of addressing the royal children before turning to face him.

“This is my heir, Robb, and his twin brother, Jon,” his father announced as the king approached them. He held out his hand first to Robb, then to his brother, giving them each an approving nod.

“If you take after your namesakes, you’ll be a great lord someday,” the king said to Robb with a smirk before looking to Jon, “but only if you’re there to keep him in line.” That earned a smile from his twin, so the king playfully slapped him on the shoulder and moved on down the line.

“My eldest daughter, Sansa,” his father followed behind the king. While the two men progressed along the row, the Queen stayed back, eyeing him and Jon like a predator sizing up its prey. Suddenly his heart started beating faster and his doublet felt tighter than before. He looked about the courtyard then, moving his eyes from one man to the next. Most of the retainers were going about their duties with haste, paying little mind to him or his family. Yet here and there were knights and freeriders and sworn swords who gazed at the Starks through visors or from beneath hoods. It made him feel half his age. Then Jon was at his side again, nudging him with his elbow. His brother flashed a quick smile at him, only a slight curl at the side of his mouth come and gone in the blink of an eye. It was a reassurance, a reminder; he was a Stark of Winterfell.  _ Act like one. _

“Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I would pay my respects,” the king commanded. The queen began to protest.

“We’ve been riding since dawn, my love. Surely the dead can wait.”

The king scarcely looked at her before turning and walking away with Robb’s father at his heels. The queen’s brother took her by the arm to lead her away. Servants stepped forward to show the royal family, a few choice nobles, and their sworn swords to their chambers within the castle proper, while the rest of the king’s procession turned and made their way back out through the gates to Wintertown, where the inns and brothels were certain to make quite the profit off of the royal visit.

His mother walked off with most of his siblings in tow, while Theon had been pulled aside, no doubt to receive a scolding for his behavior by Ser Rodrik or Maester Luwin. The rest of the household dispersed with haste to make the final preparations for that night’s feast, leaving only the twins behind. Robb looked over at his brother.  _ All the pomp and circumstance for that?  _ As if Jon had read his mind, his brother offered him a halfhearted shrug and turned to leave.

 

\-- -- -- -- --

 

The great hall of Winterfell was hazy from smoke and ringing with the sound of more than three hundred drunken partiers feasting and joking and belting out bawdy drinking songs. From the hall’s high stone walls hung six massive banners, three to a side. At the head of the hall were two great grey direwolves running across a snow white field, in the center were two crowned stags, black against gold, and at the far end, by the doors, hung two roaring lions on a deep, crimson backdrop. 

The king and queen were seated on a raised dais alongside Lord and Lady Stark, but at the moment only Lady Catelyn and Queen Cersei were at their seats. King Robert was down amongst the rabble, talking and drinking with each table he stopped at. Lord Eddard was making his rounds about the room, speaking with his household and welcoming respected knights and nobles personally.

Robb was seated towards the center of the table just beneath the dais. Jon sat next to him while Theon sat directly across the twins. To their right sat the girls, Sansa and Arya as well as Princess Myrcella. Sansa was in the middle of a conversation with the princess, while Arya was looking as if she wanted to be anywhere else in the world. To their left sat Bran and Tommen. Bran was asking the other boy all sorts of questions about the Kingsguard and Southron tournaments, but never stopped talking long enough to allow the little prince to speak. Further down the table, Prince Joffrey sat alone with a sour look to him. Occasionally he would turn and mumble something to his sworn sword.  _ The Hound  _ leaned against the wall, cloaked in shadow. He wore a sword at all times and looked out upon the room as if willing someone-  _ anyone-  _ to give him the excuse to use it.

Three seats were empty. Rickon, who had been seated directly to his left, had been taken up to bed a few hours ago and the little lord, Tyrion, was nowhere to be seen. The last of the honored guests seated with the Stark children was the knight Ser Jaime Lannister who had only sat down once at the table after walking in beside his brother. As soon as the feast began, the man plucked a tankard of ale from a servant’s tray and began moving about the room as gracefully as any man could. Each table he would stop at would go silent upon his arrival to hear his words and laugh at his japes. They would treat him with respect, call him the  _ Lion of Lannister  _ to his face, and whisper  _ Kingslayer  _ behind his back.

“Now that man is a true killer,” Theon Greyjoy was saying, pointing his knife at Sandor Clegane, “I can see it in his eyes.” He stabbed a roasted onion and crunched into it.

“The Hound isn’t a Kingsguard; he’s not even a knight!” Robb countered. The two were arguing over who the greatest fighter in the realm was. Theon claimed it had to be Clegane, but he wasn’t convinced. “How good can he be if King Robert hasn’t made him a white cloak?”

“He made him his son’s personal guard, which I’d say is even more important,” Theon spoke around a mouthful of food.

“Kingsguard protect the king’s family too, not just the king,” Jon pointed out. His words were slurred and when Robb looked over at his brother, he could see how heavy his eyelids seemed to sit. The feast was a special event and as such, their father allowed all the children a single cup of the sweet summerwine that the king brought up with him from the south. Theon, however, was five years older than the twins and not a Stark, therefore he was allowed however many cups he wanted. So when Jon drained his first cup, Theon inconspicuously slid him another. And another. And another.

“Of course you’d take his side!” Theon protested, flagging down a serving girl to bring him more wine.

“Not taking sides,” Jon hiccuped and drained the last of his wine. He pushed the cup across the table until it snagged on the tablecloth and tumbled to the floor in a clatter. Jon flinched and peered over at their mother up at the high table. Robb didn’t even have to look back to know she hadn’t heard the sound of one cup hitting the floor above all the noise of three hundred rowdy drunkards. 

“Oh yeah? Go on then, who’s the greatest fighter in the realm?”

Jon didn’t speak his answer. Instead he gave a pointed look across the room. Robb and Theon both turned, following Jon’s gaze to where it landed upon a smiling lion dressed in black and crimson.

“ _ The Kingslayer?!”  _ Theon cackled, “ah yes, it is quite difficult work, stabbing old men in their backs while you’re meant to guard them!”

Jon took a long drink from his newest cup and peered across the table at the older boy with a familiar dark look in his eyes. “Ser Jaime won his first tourney melee at thirteen, he fought the Kingswood Brotherhood at fifteen,” he began, only once Theon had quieted down, “he was knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and raised to the Kingsguard by Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull. He found his place among men of legend when he was younger than you, Greyjoy.”

Theon was silent for a moment, then a smile spread across his face from ear to ear. “Robb, I think your brothers in love!”

Jon pushed himself up to his feet, knocking over cups and sending his chair skittering backwards with an ear-splitting screech. In an instant, Theon’s smile disappeared. Robb stood too, ready to get in between his brother and his friend, but it didn’t matter. His twin was too deep into his cups and he stood too abruptly. Suddenly he was falling backwards, stumbling over his own feet, and Theon was cackling once more. Robb tried to reach out and steady his brother, but he was already out of reach and barreling straight into a rather tall and lean man dressed in all black.

“Uncle Benjen!” Robb’s uncle was the First Ranger of the Night’s Watch, a cold, rugged man who had served as a black brother the past fourteen years. He was holding Jon steady with a hand on either shoulder. His twin was absently staring at the ground, red-faced and swaying.

“I had come to speak with you both, but I suppose it can wait till the morning,” his uncle chuckled, “it seems your brother has had a bit too much to drink. Why don’t you go ahead and take him back to his chambers.”

Jon opened his mouth to protest, but Robb quickly shushed him and gently pushed him towards the door. They passed beneath the dais on their way, their mother looking down on them in a way that Robb knew meant they’d be receiving quite the scolding on the morrow. They weaved their way through the crowd. Most of the men were too drunk themselves to pay any attention to them.  _ All the better,  _ Robb thought to himself.

It was unlike his brother to be quite so reckless, but he hadn’t really been himself since they received word that the king was on his way to their home. He brooded more often since then, shutting himself up inside. Robb hated seeing his brother this way, but in all the chaos he hadn’t had the time to sit down and talk with Jon about what was bothering him.

It was a short walk through the courtyard, past Winterfell’s modest sept, and into the Great Keep, all done in silence save for the dull droning coming from the hall behind them. Jon was leaning heavily into his brother’s side, so Robb took his twin’s arm and draped it around his own shoulders. They took the steps of the keep’s narrow spiral staircase very, very slowly. He kept his back to the wall, sliding along with each step while half-guiding, half-carrying Jon along with him. 

After what seemed like ages, they finally arrived at Jon’s bedchambers, an austere square room halfway up the keep. Aside from his clothes, the only other personal belongings Jon kept were the dozen or so books sitting on the desk in the corner. Robb rifled through them while his brother got undressed. Two were on the history of the Targaryen dynasty, while a third was specifically related to the Dance of the Dragons, a civil war of succession that occurred near on two centuries ago. Half a dozen of them focused on House Stark and the lineages and legends thereof. The rest were a mix of historical texts and legends Robb had never even heard of. 

“Studying to become a maester, brother?” He asked, as he moved to the fireplace. The servants kept the fire burning at all times, but the flames were dying down, so he stoked the embers and added another couple of split logs.

Jon scoffed and pulled the furs up around him. “Maesters study for a decade or more at the Citadel. If I leave you alone for that long, Winterfell will be a ruin by the time I return.”

Robb grinned at that.  _ You’re probably more right than you know, brother.  _ Not for the first time, Robb looked over at his twin and thought of how much simpler it would be if Jon was the heir instead of him. Jon was more studious, the better fighter, the better diplomat. Everytime a new lord and lady would come visit Winterfell, their father would have him and Jon dine with them and speak with them.  _ “They will be your bannermen someday. You must know them and they must know you. If not, how will you expect them to follow you?”  _ His father’s words rang in his ears. Robb tried so hard, but he was always so nervous, certain he was going to say the wrong thing. Jon, on the other hand, was a natural playing the lord’s game, joking and debating and discussing politics with their father’s bannermen, their wives, and their children.

“I’m worried about father,” Jon stated, pulling him out of his thoughts. Robb looked back on his brother’s furrowed brow, the dark, somber look on his face. 

“Why’s that?” he pulled a chair from the desk and took a seat beside the bed.

“Surely you know why the King came all the way to Winterfell.” When he didn’t immediately respond, Jon continued. “He means to name father as his new Hand.”

Robb knew, but he still didn’t see Jon’s point. “So? Father is Lord Paramount of the North. He  _ can  _ say ‘no’. And even if he agrees, father will be a good Hand.”

“Starks don’t do well in the South. I mean, look at what happened to grandfather and Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna. They all went south and they all died in the South.”

“I bet Old Cregan Stark would disagree. He went South and lived a long, happy life. He even served as Hand, himself.”

“For a day. I doubt King Robert will let father go that easily.” Jon’s voice was heavy with effort, his words slow and slurred. “With father in King’s Landing, you’ll be acting Lord of Winterfell.” He waved a finger in Robb’s face, teasingly.

Robb knew that too. “Aye, a fearful thought to be sure, but you’ll be here too, brother, so what have I got to worry about with you by my side?”

Jon’s hand dropped.

“What, no witty comeback?” Jon only grunted in reply, turning over to face the wall. It wasn’t long before his breathing evened out, his chest rising and falling, eyes closed in a deep, dreamless sleep.

Robb stood and made for the door, but something stopped him. Despite his efforts to calm his brother’s fears, he was just as worried about what was to come for their family. Un-abetted by wine and hindered by a thousand terrible thoughts, he knew sleep would not come easy to him tonight. So, he pulled his chair closer to the fire, plucked a book from the desk,  _ History of the Kings-Beyond-the-Wall  _ by Maester Herryk, and set himself to the task ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for the wait. Life often gets in the way of my hobbies. I wrote the first half of this chapter awhile back, but I decided to add the second part on and the second part was difficult for me to write because there was so much I wanted to do with it. At this point in the story, I'm focusing on retelling canon events from different perspectives than we get in the books. So we get the King's arrival and the feast from Robb's POV. Canonically, Jon gets drunk and has some conversations with Benjen and Tyrion during the feast. I wanted to keep drunk Jon, but couldn't fit Benjen/Tyrion in the way I wanted to initially, so I'll save those conversations for a later chapter.  
> My motivation has been significantly renewed as of late, so bar any real life emergencies, updates /should/ come in more regularly.   
> Feel free to leave me any comments about what you like or dislike about the story or any suggestions or criticisms you have. Thanks for reading!


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